


Succession

by clandestineClairvoyant



Series: Inquisitor!Hawke-verse (But not the one you're thinking of.) [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Inquisitor!Hawke, M/M, but not the hawke you think, cassandra punching carver 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:53:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver Hawke only wants to be good at something in his life. Make a difference, do the Maker's work.<br/>If he'd known it'd be so bloody hard to be good, he would've kept fighting slavers in back alleys.</p><p> Or; Carver Hawke is among the long line of Templars filing into the Conclave, and elder Hawke's missive sending him away from the Free Marches comes too little too late- Carver Hawke is embroiled in a mess long in the making, and <i>why</i> are Amells always ending up in the thick of things?</p><p> EDITED 10-11/2015 For the changing tenses, continuity errors, and shitty formatting. Apologies to everyone! Not much has changed beyond that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whole work edited 10-11/26/2015 For some errors and also tenses being all over the place. Apologies! It reads better now.

Prologue

 

Carver hurries up the steps of the east hall, plate mail clinking loudly as he struggles to get the clasps under his right arm done up. The flags have been cleaned down to the cracks, and the windows shuttered against the biting snow outside. They fitfully rattle as he passes however, and he makes a note to mention it to someone.

Half of the Temple had been open to the elements up to two months ago, infested by wolves, brontos, deepstalkers, riddled with traps and- so the scullery maid said, eyes shining brightly while Carver tried to charm her into some extra ale rations- _undead._

Carver had rolled his eyes doubtfully, and she’d huffed like he’d pinched her, pushing him roughly out of the cupboard and leaving him to blush and make lame excuses in front of the amused kitchen staff.

If this wing wasn’t ready to be inhabited yet, then they shouldn’t have put the _Most Holy_ in it, for Andraste’s sake. Carver swerves around an elf with an armful of laundry, nodding distractedly as he finally manages to do up the clasp, and starts yanking his baldric on to keep his bloody sword from banging the backs of his knees. The woman’s ancient, she doesn’t need to catch a cold just for the sake of these peace talks. Although, as she often informed the knights that had accompanied her, _”I’m old not made of glass- Put that pitcher down and let me get my own water you silly men.”_

She didn’t much care for the fuss, for all that she’d been _required_ by the Church to take at least a full complement of Templars with her.

Carver would be flattered he’d been selected, but with how few loyal Templars there were actually left, he knew it was more a matter of who they could get that hadn’t simply stayed away from the rebellions simply because they were coward, or lyrium-addled. The rest had made a merry train and followed Seeker Lucius to Orlais to do god knows what. All Carver knew was they weren't _there,_ doing their sodding _job._ The world was going to shit and they decide that their vows are _conditional._

He’s flushed and panting by the time he gets to the right wing, and probably looks like a tit with his gauntlets hanging from his belt and sword half hanging off of his back- But in his defense, up until a half hour ago, he hadn’t realized he was going to be standing guard at the talks.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Agatha had demanded, aghast. 

She was tall and broad, a dark skinned rivaini with a nice enough face- If her nose hadn’t been broken multiple times. And her face wasn’t constantly scowling. Probably one of the only other Templars there that Carver recognized from the Gallows. She shared a name in common with another templar under Meredith's command, but thankfully, the Agatha that Carver liked the least had left without much ado when Meredith went stark raving bonkers. So he was stuck with the Lieutenant.

Carver stared at her in confusion, a plate in hand already half filled with some of the generous spread the chantry sisters had provided. She'd snatched the plate from his hands, set it on the table, and spun him roughly around by the shoulders to start herding him to the door. Like a nug trying to herd a druffalo. That in itself was stressful enough- Carver wasn’t _scared_ of Agatha. But he did have a healthy respect for her. And her unwavering devotion to bunkmate cleanliness and respectability.

One of the reasons he was washing behind his ears, for the first time since he was small enough for his mother to pin down.

Recruitment had been sparse in Kirkwall resulting in them being gravitated together; although they all knew _why_. Him, Agatha, and some other old bloke with noble connections that probably couldn’t tell his arse from his shield were the only Free Marches Templars there. The rest were what they could scrounge up from around Ferelden, and three full complements from Orlais.

“Er. Getting breakfast?” He’d tried answering her, eyes darting nervously as he attempted to slow his push out of the dining hall. He didn’t recall doing anything to warrant Agatha’s wrath- Although with her, it could be _anything._ Did he leave his smalls on her cot or something?

“You idiot- Didn’t you check the roster? You’re up for second shift guard duty- get your arse to the main hall before someone notices the lump of _nug shit_ supposed to be keeping them safe is _missing from the doorway._ ” She snapped, hand shoving at his shoulder until he’s staggered into motion.

“But- I just checked it yesterday!” He gulped, feeling the blood drain from his face. _Shite._ "Shite." He still needs his plate, his under armor, he isn’t even wearing his _boot socks_ , they’re balled in the bottom of his trunk-

“And they changed it last night!” Agatha practically shouted, managing to clench her teeth to a hiss as they start to draw stares from some of the clerics. Noise really echoes in this place. “Move your _arse_ Ferelden, before you make the Gallows look _worse_.”

“What, with _you_ standing in front of them? Impossible.”

She stopped shoving him long enough to punch him, hard enough that he yelped, arm going numb. The rivaini raised her fist at him, and Carver managed not to flinch a second time. Much. “I’m going to beat the shit out of you, Ferelden.” She warned, and he sidesteps her, scowling and rubbing his arm. But he can tell she’s fighting not to smile.

“After guard duty then- Meet you in the yard at half past.”

She sniffed, and tossing her thick, rope-like hair over one shoulder. “Better make it a quarter till- Have to leave the Divine time to chew you out.”

 _Which she won’t._ Carver thinks sullenly, as he finally gets to the right wing after he finishes assembling his armor, ignoring the chafing of his sockless feet in his boots. The sound of his loose greaves echoes off of the stone walls, the tinny sound of his footsteps making a lonely accompaniment to his ascent up the stairs. This hall was largely abandoned for the talks. The servants had been restricted to the more public areas, and everyone else had to go through checkpoints.  
_She’ll just…._ Carver grimaced as he walked. _Be disappointed._

In the brief time-two months to get here, and one preparing for the talks- He’d grown to like Justinia. It was hard not to. She was one of the better one’s, he thought. Hardly nobby at all. And with a name like “Most Holy Divine”, he figured you had the biggest right of _anyone_ to be nobby.

 

As Carver approaches the end of the hall at a wary trot, he catches sight of a Templar he doesn't immediately recognize to the left of the great double doors, and two of the Seeker's people directly in front. It’s standard for everyone to knock before coming and leaving, so that’s not too unusual.

What _is_ , he thinks, cringing slightly, is the gaping blank space where his dumb arse is supposed to be to the right.

Carver slicks a hand through his hair nervously and tries not to look too sweaty and red.

He probably fails.

“There’s the dog lord." The sneering voice was slightly distorted through the helm, but unmistakeable. Carver's grimace turns into a scowl. "What’s wrong, someone forgot to take you for walkies?” Asks the Templar easily, without even changing his stance.

Carver tries to lighten the lead weight suddenly in his stomach. So. It’s Boric.  
Hard to tell under the armor, but now that he’s looking, there _is_ a faint dent in the helmet.

Makes Carver warm and fuzzy every time he sees it. “Sorry. I had to take a piss and your trunk was locked, so I had to go actually find the pot.” One of the Inquisition scouts snickers, sounding surprised about it, and Carver grins.

Boric isn't as amused.

“Where’s your helmet Corporal Hawke?”

Shite. Again. Carver wishes he wasn’t so red in the face from running- It makes him look more embarrassed than he really is. _Fuck where-_

He scowls, and taps his foot nervously. “I- I left it with the quartermaster to get some dings out, I didn’t know the roster changed-“

“No excuses Corporal.” Snaps Boric, and the Inquisition Scout’s not snickering now. The hall rings with the sudden sharp bark, and Carver tries not to hunch his shoulders. _Great._ Boric's finger taps revealingly against his belt. _He’s in a mood._

“Fine, let me go get it-“He tries, and with a herculean doesn't roll his eyes.

“No need. I’ve already sent a runner, since you were _late_. Grey Wardens show up unexpectedly, and what do they see when the get here? Shoddy vigilance.” Boric shakes his head in mock disappointment, and Carver grits his teeth at the _sneer_ he can hear. Uptight Orlesian son of a- “I’ll have the Lieutenant relieve you. You’re dismissed to go and-“ There's a pointed pause. “Get the dings out of your helmet.”

Carver clenches a fist uselessly, hot prickles along the back of his neck and teeth grinding faintly. It burns, but Boric _is_ a Knight Lieutenant- No matter if him and Carver have been going at it since recruitment.

“Ser.” Carver snaps off a salute, crisp and exact, before turning on heel and leaving.

The way he’d come.

He’s sure his neck is red, and as he rounds the corner and Agatha comes into sight, he pauses long enough to punch the wall solidly.

Her mouth quirks up.

“Sorry Ferelden.” She slaps a hand on his shoulder companionably, already kitted out and in far less time than it had taken Carver. He shrugs it off, and she lets him, used to him being prickly when he’s upset. She's a gem that way. “I’m sure they won’t be too mad-“

“Yeah.” Carver cuts her off, running his other hand along his face, and offering her a weary roll of his eyes. “Just slept in and decided to show up without my full _bloody_ uniform-“

“Don’t let it bother you. Most Lieutenants would’ve let it go, but you know Boric has a bug up his ass about you-“

“More like a whole swarm-“

“Just _don’t get mad._ ” She warns, holding a finger under his nose. He crosses his eyes at it and scowls. “Because you get mad, and you say _stupid_ shite. Now, get off and get you some breakfast. You’re going to need it when I kick your sorry stinking carcass around the ring this afternoon.”

Carver makes an indignant noise, but she shoves him off down the hall, and gives him a solid smack on the ass that he’s entirely unfazed by. “Yeah- Aright. Later Rivaini.”

“See you Ferelden.”

###

Carver isn't thinking of much as he walks, beyond how he's going to get back at Boric. Definitely not thinking of where he’s going- Doesn’t matter much, since he has nowhere to be, and he was no longer very hungry. Breakfast would just sour his stomach, and he’s not much of a fan of the thick dark coffee they brew for the Orlesians.

His steps carry him down another flight of stairs, where he figures he might be able to cut through an abandoned wing to get to the quartermaster’s dungeon office. Hopefully he'll be done with his helmet, and Carver can retrieve it in time to not look like a _complete_ idiot when Boris finally told the Knight Captain in command that he'd been late for shift. Plus, he enjoys making use of the shortcuts, since it means he doesn't run into anyone he doesn't like. There’s plenty of abandoned halls and doors left unlocked, since construction is still on-going; And while he walks, he can think of how to get back at the Lieutenant.

One of his favorite past times, these past few weeks on the road and staying at the Temple, was getting back at Boric in ways he can’t pin on Carver.

The piss in the trunk thing was no joke, and he’s glad he dropped the hint for when he _really_ does it, so the smug bastard _knows_ \- Or _maybe_ something more subtle. Soap in his soup sort of thing. Get him to have the shits in his armor, a good tried-and-true Gallows humor (as the Free Marches Templars gleefully called it), that was…. _Relatively_ harmless.

Carver's preoccupied. He doesn’t notice where his feet have taken him until he’s well and truly off the beaten path. He doesn't even look up- Until he hears a scream for help.

 

His head is only _just_ jerking towards the sound, when he feels the prickle of magic along his skin, that trickles along his right side where it’s being cast, and he's moving before he can even think about it.

He remembered working with Cullen in the Gallows- The older man standing with a mage, and Carver with his eyes shut. Carver’d have to raise a hand when the mage began casting. He’d gotten pretty damn good at it too. He got to the point where one of the apprentices having a nightmare and setting their bedsheets on fire could have him up and halfway down the hall before his eyes were even open, and his sheets scattered down the hall.

Someone screams again, and _Maker’s Breath_ it sounds like Justinia- Carver draws his sword, and as he rounds the corner towards the abandoned wing he came into full sight of the two mages standing guard at a door he doesn't recognize immediately; Both of them looking surprised as he comes into view.

He takes in a number of things at once- First. They’re Wardens, both of them.

Second. They’re not supposed to be here, this is a restricted area, and only the guards (Carver included) and dignitaries are supposed to be here- A list that does _not_ include Grey Wardens.

He knows, he’s read the stupid thing himself.

And lastly, they are both lifting their hands to cast magic at him, and judging from the oily feeling he can feel across his skin, he’s not going to like it.

Carver gives a yell of outrage before they can even finish, and charges, head tucked and shoulder down, and gets one of them hard in the gut. Her face is twisted in surprise- Everyone always is, they never expect him to move that fast.  
Too bad for them.

The woman hits the wall, him on her, with a sickening crack, and Carver thinks if he’s lucky, she’s unconscious. Mages never wear helmets, the silly fucks.

The other warden gives a hiss and Carver feels the spell he _didn't_ have time to concuss settle on him like a web; cloying and rotten. 

He immediately leans over and throws up onto the flagstones, knees hitting the floor, thanking every deity he knows that he forgot his helmet that day, because _nothing_ is worse than getting hit by a Horror spell in full plate armor.

Second only to soap in your soup.

“Andraste’s _tits_ , Camille, are you okay-“

Carver shuts his eyes tight against the rolling floor and creeping hands in his vision, dread clawing sharp holes in his guts as he gives a furious _roar_ and smites the son of a bitch as he bends to check on his friend.

It hits the Warden like a hammer and knocks the bastard against the wall, his magic fizzling out like a hot coal in a puddle. He gives a low groan, and lies still.

Carver can feel the Horror slough off like a hot shower, and shakily gets to his feet. He bends to retrieve his sword from the ground, and wipes his mouth with the back of one hand.

He looks at them, and debates running them through- Technically protocol. They attacked him, and they _are_ in a restricted area.

But on the other hand, he’s sure someone will want to question them, and he doesn’t have time to tie them-

His decision is cut short by an increase in magic to the other side of the door going from a low hum to a _vortex_ and he’s sure every Templar in the place must be on their way by now, how could they _not_.

Carver tightens a fist around his sword as he hears Justinia again, sounding like she’s _hurt_ , and he’s going to _rip apart_ the son of a bitch that would hurt a sweet old bird like that, and he slams the door open-

#####


	2. Chapter 2

#####

Flashes of green; There was someone with him, and he could sense a desperately cold wind on his face, moist like the breath of some giant, foul creature-

He was scared, scared shitless. But he could feel his feet moving, pushing someone ahead of him as he felt fear, a tangible thing behind him, scuttling and screeching like a chitinous nightmare-

“I’m going to get us both out- Just follow me, keep close-“ 

He was going up, and there was a change in the air. The sting of magic was all around him, like the prickling of a thousand needles, all on the inside of his skin. He felt a surge up ahead, and a concentration that was green, the greenest thing he’s ever seen in his life, and he had to reach it, he had to get there, they were going to make it-

He felt sharp teeth on his boot and kicked out, his heel making a satisfying _crunch_ , and Makers Breath, his sword was long gone but he wished it wasn’t. 

Carver’s fingers were bloody from climbing, gloves shredded, but he reached out all the same, towards her, his fingers stretching and all of the fear he’s ever felt in his life swelling behind him like giant, rotten wave ready to crash down and swallow him under, and he should never have come, he should have heeded his brother- Maybe he’d see Bethany again, and wouldn’t that just set his heart to rights, whole again and with his sister, and her sweet smile- 

_They weren’t going to make it._

__**”Run.”** _ _

##### 

Carver’s passed out before. Plenty of times, in fact. You don’t drink with Isabella and Varric without learning to let these things go. Things such as your coin, your memories, your morals- Your dignity, on some occasions. Unconsciousness is just another thing to accept. He’d always been a good sport about it, given as good as he got, and helped his friends stumble home, when he wasn’t being rolled home himself. 

In a place like Kirkwall it was all you _could_ do, and pray your purse was still on your hip when you woke. 

It was a policy that carried with him all the way to the Gallows, where he and the other recruits would get shit-faced off of smuggled lyrium-wine, and sloppily manage to shush and snicker their way to their various bunks. Often with a bit of trial and error, but the other people in their barracks were very tolerant about getting sat on by their pickled bunk-mates. 

Except for Agatha- She’d practically tossed him out the Gallows fifth floor window. 

So Carver is no stranger to waking up with no idea how you got there. 

When he finally manages to come to awareness, the first thing he realizes is he's slumped halfway over, shoulders screaming in pain from the position they were in, and his eyes and neck are pounding like an Ogre had used his head to break a mountain open.  
And then maybe put out a forest fire. Before cleaning its teeth. 

He isn't in the barracks, Carver notes second, as he manages to peel his crusted eyes apart, a low groan coming out completely without his say-so. Makers _breath_ he felt like shite. He's in what looked like a dungeon, his hands chained to the damp, cold floor- 

That's far as his observations get before Carver’s shifting brings his arms into view, and he sees the source of the low-register burning he's been feeling in his left hand. He’d assumed that it had been some scrape or cut, maybe festering in the dank moisture of the place he’d found himself in. He wishes it was. 

There's a rippling green vortex on his arm, a sharp and bright burning that feels like a throbbing sunburn magnified by ten. It looks peculiar, as if he's staring down on a thunderstorm rendered in emerald lights from a very very high height. Some sort of illusion makes it look like something very large rendered very small, and then stuck it on his _fucking hand. He gives a shout of alarm, and then grits his teeth together as it pulses alarmingly._

The door burst open just as the adrenaline hits, the grogginess burning away from Carver’s eyes like melting snow, and it leaves him shaking and wide-eyed, rubbing uselessly at his hand on the stone as if it would scrape clean.  
_Get it off, get it off, get it off-_

There was a rasp of drawing swords, and Carver manages to stop the frantic movements of his arms long enough to look around warily, his hair lank and hanging in his face, obscuring his view somewhat. 

They were the Divines soldiers, those assholes who'd made a march in Kirkwall _after_ the fact, and Carver's struck with even more confusion than before. Had he been taken by rebel forces? Were they here to rescue him? Ihe swords pointing at him told him it wasn't likely, and instead of rambling desperately, he starts trying to cast his memory back. Two women come in, steps calm and measured. They look familiar- He’d been through the army a few times with Justinia’s retinue. 

What had he done to deserve this treatment? 

He remembers the Gallows; his brother telling him of what he’d discovered there, the goings-on. The suspicious looks Cullen had been casting Keran for _months_ , right up until they’d fucked everything all to hell, and Cullen’d left with the dark haired woman. With Carver jumping ship not too far behind him, grasping the opportunity that Justinia had offered with both hands. And what a sinking ship it was. He's afraid of how much longer he might have managed to last, if that hadn't happened first.

What in the Fade happened to him?

Carver lets out a small noise of recognition- A small ‘Hh’ as Seeker Pentaghast circles behind him, her eyes unreadable in the dim light. Her steps were heavy however. Rolling. He wasn’t sure what that meant. Was she angry? Maker, she seemed angry. But she _always_ seems angry, how the fuck's he supposed to tell?

Carver had never been skilled at reading people anyway- That was much more his brothers bag.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” The Seeker finally says into the tense silence, perhaps fifteen seconds after they enter. Her voice is surprisingly close to his ear, and Carver feels his breath stop in his chest at the sound of pure _venom_ in her voice. He begins casting his gaze around wildly from the stone-faced Chantry forces, to the steely, determined set of Lady Nightingales mouth as she looks at him. The flickering torchlight makes it hard for him to see all the way back into her hood, and it makes him nervous.

“Wha-“

There’s a blow to the side of his face, where he can’t see, and the chains are the only thing that keeps him from going over sideways under the force of the blow. 

Andraste’s _tits_ she isn't pulling her punches. Carver’s _literally_ been hit by darkspawn that didn’t hurt as much.

“The Conclave is _destroyed._ Everyone who attended is dead. Except. For _you._ ” Comes the incensed explanation, and Carver feels sick to his stomach, like he hadn't since- Well. Since he'd seen something else go up in flames.

Had he- He’d been there? He remembers getting the orders from the acting Knight-Commander at the Conclave, standing at attention with Agatha at his side in the mud-soaked snow next to the tent. He remembered the small glow of pride he felt at being entrusted with this task. Agatha could call him a suck-up all she wanted; the approval of the Divine- _the_ Divine, take that and stick it up your staff _Garrett_ \- was worth it.

…As well as the satisfaction of doing a good job, of course. 

He- he made it to the Conclave. He thinks he remembers that much. Being at the Temple. It had taken a week at least to set up, and he can feel some of the memory coming back of clearing rooms, helping get supplies settled. One of the recruits had thrown a spider in his hair, he remembers in perfect clarity. A small gem of untarnished memory as he'd in turn picked the younger up by his feet and threatened to dunk his head in the snow. (Templar archers were tiny things. Fodder, Agatha called them heartlessly.)

But what they’re talking about? An explosion? He has no recollection.

Carver’s silent for too long, and Cassandra makes a sickened noise like an angry bear, reaching out to jerk his glowing hand up in front of his eyes. The glow washed over the two of them and he tries not to struggle, heart still thumping away like a hammer.

_“Explain this.”_

“I- I can’t.” Carver manages, and feels like a _monster_ as Cassandra shoves his arm back down, teeth bared.

“What do you mean, _you can’t?_ ”

“I- I can’t- it’s something magical- I don’t know how it got there.”

Carver barely manages to keep the gut-wrenching fear out of his voice, the sight of such obvious magical tampering _on his body_ sending him to new heights of paranoia. Maker, he feels like he’s going to vomit. Was it some sort of demon magic? Blood magic? He’d seen some _weird_ shit in Kirkwall- but nothing like this.

“You’re _lying_.”

Carver sees the punch coming out of the corner of his eye, and although she’s _fast_ , Carver spent a year as a mercenary, six years as a Templar- and 19 years before that as a rowdy younger brother.  
He manages to loosen his jaw enough so he’s sure she doesn’t dislocate it, letting the blow carry him as far as the chains allow, and letting out only a small grunt of pain.

If there’s one thing he has the sneaking suspicious he’s better than his brother at, it’s taking a punch.

 

The Seeker is someone he’s only seen from a distance, standing guard at Justinia’s side, or in the mess tent. But he’d heard the rumors, and been warned specifically by Agatha and the older Templars to give her and other hand of the Divine the utmost respect. They were both terrifying warriors, and even more powerful figures in the Chantry than they were in the Inquisition.

The tent gossip that permeated any camp had taken care of the rest, and he’d been painted a very terrifying picture by most of the Inquisition forces, who insisted on things like Nightingale being able to disappear in thin air, or listen over long distances. Or Seeker Pentaghast taking down a bear, with her _bare hands_. Someone had been _very_ moony when they told him that, and he’d simply bought them another drink and nodded along.

As Carver clenches his jaw back shut, and feels gingerly with his tongue for a cracked tooth, he finds himself believing it.

There’s a brief scuffle, and Carver uncrosses his eyes in time to see Lady Nightingale gently, but firmly, pull Cassandra back, her face still steely calm in the face of the Seeker’s wrath. “We _need_ him Cassandra.”

Seeker Pentaghast steps back, her fists clenching against her side as she steps to the door, her eyes burning unashamed holes in Carver’s until he looks down, already feeling the hot swelling in his face. She had been wearing gauntlets.

“I- Divine Justinia, is she-“

Nightingale holds up a hand without looking back as Cassandra bursts forward, murder in her eyes. She's gently restrained by the grip on her arm, nearly vibrating with tension. Carver's beyond caring. Normally he’d be trying to get a hit in himself, chains or no chains, swearing his head off all the while- But to be honest, he's scared and confused in a way he hasn’t been in a while. Since he was a kid. And he thinks it would be better to shut his trap and wait for this all to make sense.

“She’s _dead_ , and you _killed her_ you ferelden son of a-.”

The other woman turns to take the Seeker’s ear to her mouth, a brief murmur passing between them. It's hurried, but there's still enough time for Carver to glance around warily at the guards, counting eight as well as archers, before Seeker Pentaghast finally acquiesces- standing back against the wall and crossing her arms. Her mouth is moving silently in a way that made him think that she must be grinding her teeth, glare pointedly fixed on the wall right over his head as she restrains herself with some effort. 

 

The whole thing- the rage, the soothing hand, and the silent acceptance- is very intimate, and Carver found himself startled by thinking of Garrett and Fenris.

Not lovers, makers breath, no. But the two had been so in tune with each other sometimes, they’d been like siblings. More so in some ways than Carver was, he’d thought jealously. Always knowing where to be in the thick of battle, or how the other would react. When to reign them back.

He recalled Garrett holding a hand up just like this in the Hanged Man, Fenris’s angry snarl and sharp tipped gauntlets practically pawing the air like a cats as he’d talked the elf down.

And he’d listened.

It makes him think of Bethany; a small hand in his, and the sweet smell of her hair.

He pushes the thought away with all the force he can, his eyes fixed on the Divines mysterious, red-haired companion as she crouches in front of him, her eyes piercing.

“Do you remember how this happened?” Nightingale asks him, and Carver grasps desperately at the quickly unraveling strands of his memory. She waits patiently, even as he opens his mouth, no sound coming out at first.

But he remembers bits, and starts piecing something together that doesn't sound shite. “There was green-“ He starts hesitantly. When he’s not interrupted (or hit), he continues, his eyes trailing down the woman’s face as he wracks his brain desperately. His knees are cramped and numb, and his hand is burning, but he does his best. "Lots of green, magic- I could _feel_ it, all over my body. Like stinging rain.”

Seeker Pentaghast frowns at this, gaze still fixed on the wall, but Nightingale remains inscrutable, face blank. She might have been wearing a mask for all she reveals, and Carver found himself talking more to fill the empty void of silence she left. “I was running- someone- There was a woman?”

His head throbs suddenly, his hand glowing in time with it like the beat of blood behind his eyelids, and he shuts his eyes as a brief wave of nausea makes him clench his teeth and fist his hands tight.

He’s still avoiding looking at the green one.

But he opens them again in time to see the flicker of surprise on Nightingales face, as well as the brief, subtle motion in the collected guards. Was he confirming something?

Carver has never wished more for anything than to remember what happened to him the night before. If it _was_ night. He _hated _not knowing, being out of control of his own self like this. Drinking was one thing. Having this- this _thing_ on his hand without any idea of how it got there? Another entirely.__

If he didn’t think it would get him run through, he’d try a dispel immediately, if only to see what happened. Anything, to get it _off_. 

“Go to the forward camp.” Came the sigh, and Carver jerks his head up in surprise. “I’ll take him to the Rift.” Seeker Pentaghast says, ushering the other woman towards the door, and Carver feels a small, cold, worm of dread in his stomach. 

Leliana may have been unreadable, but Seeker Pentaghast _clearly_ wants him dead. 

Or at least horribly maimed. 

He hopes he isn’t about to have an unfortunate accident on the way. He’d been with the Gallows for close to six years. Carver was all too familiar with what could happen in the short distance from the stairs to the solitary confinement cells. 

Seeker Pentaghast unchains him from the floor, leaving his hands together as she jerks him forward. He stumbles briefly before finding his footing, weak-kneed and loose from the cold floor. He’s lost his armor. Whether it was taken, or somehow stripped off from recent events, he can’t remember. His fingers are scabbed and torn for some reason, as well as the knees of his trousers. He’s wearing his under-armor and tunic, but all metal had been stripped away, leaving him vulnerable and shivering in the cold air as he’s led hesitantly outside.  
##### 

Nothing prepares him for what he sees. 

Carver lets out a low gasp as he looked out at the sky, not fully comprehending what he’s looking at for a brief moment. Cassandra gives him the moment, although he can feel the irritation emanating from her. 

He first think’s it’s maybe something close by, some trick of the distance as someone casts a spell that makes it _look_ like there’s a giant, gaping hole in the sky over where the Temple used to be. Some sort of creation magic, or a light spell gone awry. 

His second thought is he’s hallucinating. But a quick glance at Cassandra and the brief, green light reflected in her eyes as she stares up at it coldly dissuades him of this. 

“We call it The Breach.” Carver nods mutely, eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger each passing minute.”

“ _That_ thing leads to the Fade?” Carver gapes. “That’s-“ He casts about for appropriate words, but _fuck._ The _fade?_

“It is not the only such rift- Just the largest.” Cassandra sounds weary, and Carver is totally silent, head reeling. “All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” 

“And you think _I_ somehow did this? That I did this to _myself?_ ” Carver manages incredulously, shivering in the harsh cold. As well as from the glare Cassandra turns to him, her scar curving up like a question mark as she scowls. 

“You can play stupid-“ She looks him up and down at that with a faint scoff, and even under the conditions, Carver bristled slightly, mouth thinning. “But unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” 

Maker. 

Carver turned his gaze back to the Rift, suddenly feeling very small indeed. He wishes he remembered. 

A faint heat tingles in his hand, spiking past the burning sensation and he looks down with a frown just in time to miss the huge, green flash of light that crosses in the horizon like a bolt of lightning. But he catches the stark flash of it outlining the mounds of ruined, muddy snow at his feet and the twigs and grass poking through the permafrost. 

He’s distracted from the spectacle by the _searing_ pain that lights his left arm up in the same green glow, his hand grasping uselessly as he clenches his teeth on a scream, and drops silently as a sack of bricks. 

His head comes to rest on the cold ground, and he curls around his arm as if to _stop_ the pain pulsing in it, groaning lowly through his teeth. 

The last time he hurt this bad, he had a knife in his gut, and Anders face had been pinched with worry.

It seems to last forever, and he barely keeps from screaming, too used to pain by this time in his life to allow himself that much. He clenches his teeth as the waves flowed over him for what felt like a lifetime- but is only a few seconds- until it’s over. 

Carver let himself relax where he’s curled over himself on the ground, his breath misting out in heavy pants across the sweet smelling ground. The grass is still green underneath, not even given time to brown in the sudden onset of the Frostback winter. The snow feels cool against his face, and he think’s he’d like to stay here for a while, thanks. 

Cassandra grabs him by the arm and jerks him up when it’s clear he’s not going to die, his teeth grit and sweat dotting his face. She seemed unconcerned with the pain, and he wonders if this same thing happened while he was unconscious. Maybe they already knew about it. It rankles. 

“Each time the Breach expands your mark spreads- and it’s _killing_ you.” There’s a brief flash of… something? In her eyes before it’s crushed. Sympathy? He doesn’t hope for that much- it was probably some low-level guilt. She simply looks him over briefly to check for anything broken or cut, which there isn’t, and props him up on his feet.  
He observed his hand shakily through this, sure it’s horribly maimed, or crippled, or burnt to a crisp- but it looks fine. Beyond the slightly larger bloody green _blemish_ on his hand that was still glowing, pulsing along with the distant Breach. 

Carver pants through his nose, letting the pain slowly ebb away as he casts about for a reply. His panic's rising the longer this goes on on, and he feels like the situation's fast running out of his hands. Like sand in a sieve. “And you think I did _this?_ Fuck- “ He jerks his chained arms away from her, and the Seeker lets out a grunt of surprise. “Just get it _off_ of me-“ 

He starts to gather the tattered remains of his willpower, ready to let a dispel fly he was sure they’d feel in fucking _Redcliffe-_

But he's stopped by Cassandra’s sharp slap across his jaw, causing a brief flash of pain where she’d punched him earlier, breaking his concentration. _Tits_ she hits hard. 

Carver blinks in confusion and irritation, his face reddening with anger while she brings a finger up under his nose, snarling, “ _No,_ you _stupid boy.”_ He shoved ineffectively at her and swears, while she shakes him by the scruff. Her accent's thickened by annoyance. Bloody _insane_ woman. “Even if we _could_ get rid of it, which I highly _doubt_ , we still need it. We still need _you._ And you should be _grateful_ that we do.” 

“What the bloody hell _for?_ ” He growls out as she finally quits _manhandling_ him, hand remaining firmly gripped onto his arm. Like he’s going to go traipsing off into the bloody _demon infested forest_ for some reason. 

“It is the key- We may be able to stop the advancement of the Breach, if not close it entirely.” She rolls her eyes, and adds grudgingly, ”Justice for your crimes can wait.” 

Cassandra stands back and watches as Carver sways briefly before finding his balance, her hand going to a tense rest on her sword. She looked up at the rift with narrowed eyes, her face hardening slightly. Once again, he’s not sure with what- Sadness? Determination? 

She turns back to him, and Carver barely manages to meet her eyes, his mind whirling in confusion and body shaking with fatigue. She's all business again, her scar standing livid against her jaw in the cold, and snow dusting across her black hair and armor like a fine powder. 

She looks like an angel, he thinks, a little deliriously. The far off green glow lit her face up like the overcast sky can’t, giving everything about her an unearthly feel. Like the bronze angels they had in the Gallows. Terrible, beautiful things. 

“It is our only chance. As well as yours.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to hold off on adding a relationship- Which there WILL be- Until I get further in. I honestly can't decide, they'd all be too amazing. If anyone has any thoughts, I'm dying to hear a second opinion.


	3. Chapter 3

Carver feels the eyes of all the people as they make their way through the busy camp, his face burning under their glares. He’s used to being ignored, maybe even sneered at. As a Ferelden refugee, it was the best you could hope for. As a Templar, a nervous look was what you usually got, the armor doing the work of turning you into a faceless arm of the law. Feared, and respected.

But this was a new kind of hate; One he _knows_ isn’t justified. How could it be? He doesn’t now what had happened, but he's absolutely _certain_ he would never have brought this about. He wouldn’t even bloody well know _how_. Something he’s sure the Seeker has thought of.

They reach the edge of camp, and Carver’s not paying attention to much but the shuffle of his feet and the pain in his head when the Seeker stops and turns to him, drawing a knife.

Carver turns without hesitating, ready to run back where there’s some _witnesses,_ but she grabs his collar like she’s expecting this, neatly slicing through his bonds and giving him a withering look. “There _will_ be a trial. This, I promise you.” She reassures him, and Carver rubs his wrists a little sullenly, glaring at her.

She turns without looking, striding of down the road with a sense of urgency as the glow in the sky simply gets brighter- the closer they get, the more it seems to pulse. Carver unwillingly follows, breaking into a well-practiced soldiers run at her lead.

He can do this in full plate mail, with Agatha thumping on his back- doing it in his combat jacket and leather breeches, while cold, is like doing it in nothing. Of course the Seeker looks as if she should be sipping a cup of tea, as she lopes steadily over the snow and dirt path, legs flexing and steps coming out steady.  
She clearly knows this path well, judging from the way she avoids certain pot-holes under the snow, or branches.

They’re both silent as they make their way down the mountain pass, breath puffing up in clouds, and Carver’s grateful for the exercise as his body heats up. He knows the sweat is going to freeze later, but he’s Ferelden born and bred. A little bit of muddy cold isn’t going to stop _him._

They’re just rounding a bend, Carver very firmly _not_ looking at the Seekers- erm. Back- when there’s another flash of light, and Carver goes down in a very undignified heap. He slips on the slush and lands on his side, breathless from the sudden pain in his hand, as well as in his ribs now.

Thankfully he doesn’t have enough air to embarrass himself, and lets out a sharp high whine through his teeth instead, hand spasming.

There’s a crunch of footsteps, and he feels rough hands jerking him up again, a small _tch_ noise coming from the Seeker as he leans his wobbly weight against her, arm throbbing. “The pulses are coming faster now.” She straightens him out, and strides off again, not even bothering to see if he follows. Although admittedly, at a slower pace. Which he _refuses_ to be grateful for. “The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear. And the more demons we face.” Cassandra’s voice drifts back over the wind, and Carver shivers at her words.

“I can handle a few demons.” He says confidently, panting slightly now with the light jog they’re keeping. Cassandra throws an amused look over her shoulder, like he’d done a funny trick, and he stiffens in irritation.

“We’ll see.”

 

Carver’s silent for a while, letting the snow, and the distant sounds of clashing steel and whistling artillery fill the silence. But finally he can’t handle it any longer.

“How did I survive?” The Seekers steps falter. “If this whole explosion was as bad as you say.” He asks, and hopes fervently she doesn’t hit him again- Lady Nightingale isn’t here to keep her from pitching him over the edge of the mountain. Or worse. He can think of a _number_ of things she can do to him that will still leave the mark intact; And none of them are anything he wants to happen right before avoiding an apparent horde of demons.

Sure enough, she glares over her shoulder at him, and he discreetly slows his steps enough to put some distance between them, trying not to look jumpy. “They said you… Stepped out of the rift, and fell unconscious. They say there was a woman behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Carver stops, and Cassandra notices, her frown deepening as she comes back around.

“I was in the _fade?_ ” He‘s reeling, and Cassandra seems to realize this, crossing her arms while he gets his shit together.

“Everything farther in the valley was laid waste- Including the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“I- I was there on orders.” He manages briefly, and Cassandras face tightens in sudden distrust.

“You are a Templar?” She asks, and Carver’s certain he sees’ her fingers twitch for her sword, causing him to put his hands up in alarm.

“Yes- I mean, _no._ ” Andraste’s bloody bosom, she’s going to cut him in _half._ “I _am_ a Templar, but I was still loyal! Ask Cullen.” He insists. Apparently they don’t know who he is- which is a relief, in one way. He hates being recognized as his brothers family, almost as much as he hates the subsequent special treatment. Although, that had almost entirely stopped since the whole rebellion. Cassandra seems to think about this, and Carver isn’t ashamed to say he breathes out a sigh of relief when she removes her hand from her sword.

“You did not arrive in Haven- I would have known. What’s your stake with this?” She demands, coming in close to his face, teeth slightly bared.

“I- I was in Kirkwall, helping rebuild, when Justinia came through-“

_“Why were you recruited? I was not there, or I would remember your face.”_

“Because, I’m Cullen's Lieutenant.” Carver replies with a baffled look. “He trained me- taught me everything I know.” Almost everything- his Da had been the one to teach him how to be careful of Templars. Which he felt was the best lesson he could have taken with him to the Gallows. 

She narrows her eyes in disbelief, and Carver tries to find the words to make her see he means it. Before he’s permanently branded a rogue Templar.

“Look- I was in Kirkwall when that whole chantry cockup went down- I’m _not_ just going to let this lie, I want peace as much as anyone else. My-“ He swallows drily, throat clicking. And his voice is slightly hoarser as he continues. “My twin sister was a mage. She died- In part because of being afraid of her magic. Of the people who hated her magic. Who wanted to lock her up.” 

Cassandra’s unreadable, and he holds his hands up helplessly. “I volunteered to be a guard at the peace talks- I was with Justinia’s caravan coming in, right behind the army.” He’s starting to remember that much. Partly from following the thread of his memories from Haven, all the way to the journey to the Temple. The very road they were traveling now, in fact. He’s pretty sure he took a piss behind that very bush up the way. 

Cassandra’s nodding before he even finished speaking, her frown thoughtful. “Yes, we did recruit from the Free Marches- Maker only knows how he got you through without Leliana noticing.” She curls her lip slightly. 

 

Cassandra finally tires of the conversation, and makes a disgusted noise, turning on heel and starting back on the path. “It does not matter- If that is the truth of the matter, we will find out soon enough.”. Carver tries not to sigh too loudly, and follows her. At least he’s slightly rested now.

“As I said. There _will_ be a trial.”

#######

For the third time that day, Carver gets hit in the face.

Luckily- or not so luckily- This time it’s from an airborne flagstone, as the bridge they’re on collapses like so much cheap rubble, his mark flaring in pain as he hits the iced over river hard enough to drive the breath from him. You wouldn’t think ice would be that hard- But this ice has probably been frozen for _years_ , and has definitely lasted longer than that bloody _bridge._

Carver blinks the stars from his eyes, cursing every deity he’s heard from his mother, from Merrill- From _Fenris-_ as he lifts his aching head up. Green spots dance in his vision as he tries to clear his head, a small groan escaping over the sound of rubble crumbling, and the sizzle of magic.

 

He’s hesitant to call this the worst day of his life- After all, he’d hidden under dead bodies for two days in Ostagar, while the September sun cooked them in their armor, and darkspawn grunted and shuffled overhead. He’d heard soft _smacks_ , and a splintering sound, wet snuffles and he’d shut his eyes so tight he thought he’d never open them again, willing himself not to vomit as the darkspawn _ate_ someone mere paces away from him-

So. Not his _worst_ day. Not quite.

 

But as he gets to his feet, staggering slightly as the ground explodes in green on the river twenty strides away- erupting in crystalline, transparent structures and rumbling flashes of green lightning, dark misshapen _things_ roiling out like maggots from a kicked corpse- He fast figures it into the top five worst days of his life.

Carver doesn’t think as he casts his gaze around desperately, Cassandra rushing the first demon to appear with zero hesitation and a righteous scream that Carver was pretty sure made the rage demon hesitate, if he was any judge of fade creatures.

He was hoping for a rock, maybe a stick or something- If not to fight the demons, then to bloody knock himself unconscious with so he didn’t have to deal with this bizarre nightmare anymore- But maybe Andraste _was_ looking out for him, because there was an old notched greatsword just _laying_ there.

Within arms reach.

He takes the time to cast his eyes upwards, and silently apologize for all of the cursing he’s _ever done I’m so sorry about Andraste’s tits maker, I didn’t mean it-_ Before he leaps to the fight, scabbed fingers curling tightly around the piece of shit sword, blood singing.

The Seeker has already dispatched the first slithering demon, and Carver rolls to avoid a shot of green from the faint, glowing outline that he sees on the ridge, bringing him closer to the fray. It wavers like a heat mirage in the air, strange and ethereal.  
He’s never seen a demon like it. And he fancies he’s seen _quite_ a few more than most Templars, thank you _brother._

When he charges it and casts a dispel, it wavers like a candle someone’s opened a door on. One swing of his sword- Met with almost zero resistance, the thing is like _air_ \- And it dissipates.

Easiest demon he’s ever gotten rid of.

He dispatches two more the same way, biding time for another dispel by dodging and whirling, fending off a rage demon as the energy swells within him, building steam. He finally feels it in his chest, the bursting feeling in his finger tips as he maneuvers the rage demon _just_ right, getting one of those little wispy buggers in the way as well…

He casts a smite, fist clenching hard, putting everything he’s got into it and feels it like a punch to the gut when the demons both screech, the green one flickering out to almost nothing, and the rage demon cooling like a tempered steel. It slumps in the snow and hisses pitifully at him as he brings the pommel of his sword down hard, shattering it into so many dusty, black pieces.

Cassandra swipes a flickering green spirit out of the way without even looking at it as she stalks towards Carver, her eyes darkly fixed on him. She comes to a halt steps away from him, leveling her sword at his chest. Carver’s lungs are still heaving with the exertion- He’s still weak from whatever happened to him in the temple, and the effort of a dispel and a smite in quick succession like that has left him winded.  
Not to mention he doesn’t even _remember_ when his last dose was. He’s surprised he managed it at all.

“Drop your weapon. _Now._ ”

To Carver’s surprise, he almost does. But he sets his jaw stubbornly, clenching his hand tighter around the handle and shaking his head. “Are you fucking kidding me? After _that?_ I wouldn’t stay alive long enough to try to close that breach, let alone whatever bloody trial you want to throw at me when we get back.”

For a minute he thinks she’s going to go at him, her eyes flashing furiously and foot shifting back.  
Carver figures she’s not used to being denied like this- Not surprising. That commanding voice could bring him out of a dead sleep and into a salute before he even opened his eyes. Maker knew how the recruits felt.

But the Seekers eyes dart off to the side, where the dusty smeared remains of the demon is dragged across the ice, and loosens her stance. “I suppose… You may have attempted escape at any time.”

Carver, who is too scared shitless of her to consider anything of the _sort_ , nods rapidly in agreement. A brief vision her taking him down like a wolf felling an elk flashes through his mind, and he shivers slightly. He’s a big bloke, and strong as a druffalo, but he’s known people like Isabella and Aveline long enough to know that just because someone is smaller than you, and a woman, doesn’t mean they can’t rip your balls out through your mouth.

“I should remember you agreed to come willingly- Come. Take that sword if you know how to use it.” She removes her blade from his space, and Carver tries not to let his breath of relief too loud. And also to ignore the jab against his sword skills- which are _fine._ “We’re getting close.”

 

They set off again, the Seeker warily keeping an eye on him, and Carver warily keeping an eye on the Breach. He’s starting to wish for a little heads up before he’s crippled by pain- At least so he can find a soft landing spot.

As they come up on the steeper part of the path, Carver can make out the faint sounds of steel on steel over the howling wind, and Cassandra pants out an affirmative when he asks.

“You can hear the fighting as we get closer. Keep alert.”

As soon as they come into view of the combat, a dense cluster of motion as Inquisition scouts attempt to fend off the demonic horde that’s coming from the small rift hanging above the ground, Cassandra throws herself right in past his left shoulder. “We have to help them!”

Carver grins fiercely and follows her, hollering his head off and doing a one-two _whoof_ of a smite and a quick slash to the first demon he comes to, lopping it’s head (if demons _have_ heads) clean off.  
He meets the next one with a block, kicking it away and following it around his back with a wide sweeping cut, making it scream in pain. He steps back, getting his bearings and fending off its claws, before setting his shoulder and charging.

People don’t know this about demons ( no surprise), but the rage ones aren’t too hot if you keep on moving. Like a pan straight off the stove, or a coal you tried to move in the fire to a better spot.  
Don’t let your skin settle too long, and you can- well, Garret called him an idiot repeatedly, but what other choice did he have but to punch one in the head if he’d lost his sword? Besides, the Templar armor was the best thing that happened to him. He didn’t much care for sleeves under normal circumstances. But ever since the first time he’d kicked a demon repeatedly into submission in a close-quarters melee that had gone tits-up, and then chopped it’s head off- He’d practically sleep in the thing if he could.

His brother worried too much.

 

Carver bowls the demon over, and rolls cleanly to his feet, ungracefully hacking it to pieces while it thrashes on the ground. He finishes, rubbing the stinging burn away from his shoulder, and turns to take in Cassandra as she finishes off the last few wisps. She’s hardly broken sweat, beyond what they’d built up on their practically head-long run uphill. Her breath is simply coming out in heavier clouds in the cold air, wreathing her head and making her look like she’s glowing in the light from the small rift.

 

There’s a familiar sound, a _thrum **thock**_ , and Carvers already grinning as he turns to take in Varric, who’s eyes widen in surprise. His mouth opens to greet the dwarf, but before he can say anything, someone grabs Carver’s hand, dragging him off balance and towards the rift.

“Quickly! Before more come through!” Comes the desperate shout, and Carver has time to take in pair of wide, elvhen eyes and smooth head before his mark starts to close the rift.

 

It’s an odd feeling, and Carver grits his teeth against the pain as it floods through him, dragging his nerve endings raw on it’s way out. Not as bad as before, but close.  
The power leaves him through his left arm like a lightning bolt, and he feels like a piece of copper in a summer storm as it keeps dragging, and _dragging_ , and surely he must run dry at some point, but it keeps going and _going_ -

Finally it closes with a flash and a hiss, and he slumps slightly, held up by the elf as the energy leaves his legs. Varric is busy picking his way through the debris, more like a fussy cat than Carver ever felt possible for a dwarf to be. He pushes himself weakly all the way up, panting and shakily drawing a hand across his sweaty forehead.  
Varric looks almost the same as Carver remembers- Ruggedly handsome, with laugh lines around his eyes and mouth that never seem to smooth over. “What… What was that?” Carver gets out, flexing his hand unsurely as the elf steadies him and lets him go, checking his glowing hand with deft fingers. His lips are pursed, but he doesn’t seem nervous- Quite the opposite. He seems in his element, with the chaos around him and magic flying every which way.

He reminds Carver of Merrill- Sweet, lovely Merrill- in that wild look about him.

Carver can tell immediately this was no city elf, both by the confident set of his shoulders, his clothing, and the open way he carried a mages staff. He even _smelled_ like wilderness. Dark, and moist. Earthy.

Not that he made it a business to smell elves.

 

“That, was _you_.” The strange elf says easily as Varric draws up, clapping a friendly, callused hand to Carver’s back. It’s familiar, and he sinks back into it gratefully. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. Although, you are no mage- Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine _any_ mage with such power.”

“No _shit_.” Carver grits out, and Varric’s hand tightens warningly on Carver’s arm.

“Watch it junior. Be nice. This guy knows everything you want to know about that green junk.”

Carver closes his mouth tight, but breathes out through his nose slowly, downing his irritation. The mage seems to take no offense, smiling back in a vague way. “I theorized it can close the rifts- it seems I was correct.” 

“So it can close the Breach?” Cassandra bursts in. Her face solemn, but there’s the shine of opportunity glowing in her eyes. Even Carver can see the hope in her face, and looks to the mage as well, who seems to consider it barely a moment before agreeing. Good gent. “Possibly.”

“Good to know. Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” Varric sighs, thumbing back Bianca’s catch, and letting another bolt slide into place. 

“Varric, we _have_ been ass-deep in demons forever.” Carver replies wearily, and Varric snickers.

Cassandra narrows her eyes at the brief interaction. She turns her glare to Varric, who wilts under the sudden attention. Like a child in front of the schoolmaster. Carver’s surprised. He thought _nothing,_ save red lyrium, dragons, and debt collectors, scared Varric.  
Although he guesses anyone would make an exception for the Seeker. “Ah.”

“Varric… You know this man?” She asks, and even Carver isn’t deceived by her level tone. He backs away a step.

Varric seems nervous all of a sudden as well, fingers playing across Bianca even as he brings her casually in front of any vital parts Cassandra may want to spear. Carver’s starting to sense this is a pattern with the Seeker.

“Oh, we’ve… Met.”

Carver looks from them both in confusion, and to the mage, who shrugs easily. Maker, nothing seems to bother this mage.

Cassandra says nothing, only glares unwaveringly at Varric, who finally sighs in defeat. “All _right_. But you have to promise not to kill me- You still need me to help you get to the breach!” He throws in hurriedly, backing up as Cassandra takes a threatening step forward.

“I make no such promises.”

“Alright, alright.” Varric draws himself up, as if facing the gallows. He lands Bianca on his back and draws an elaborate flourish in the air, bowing at the waist.

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, this is Ser Carver Hawke.” Cassandra’s mouth falls open. “Junior, this is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, who I’m sure you’ve met.” Varric says mockingly, tilting his voice and his head in that odd way he does when he’s being sarcastic.

Cassandra’s face goes stone cold, and she turns to Carver, who’s suddenly about as nervous as Varric _looks._ “ _You_ are Carver Hawke? Brother to the Champion of Kirkwall?”

Carver gives her a bewildered look. “Uh. Yeah?”

"You said he died in the Deep roads- I did not even _check the gallows_ -"She turns to Varric, who’s grinning sheepishly and backing away a few paces while she’s distracted. “Listen Seeker, you can kill me later.” He says hurriedly. She doesn’t seem convinced, if the way her hand is throttling the air at her side is any indication. “Have you _seen_ the valley lately?! Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore, you _need_ me.”

Cassandra snorts through her nose, reminding Carver vividly of a dragon, before sheathing her sword. Carver hadn’t noticed how tense he was until she puts it away, and his shoulders loosen.  
For lack of a place to keep his, he rests the tip of his notched broadsword on the ground to save his wrists the trouble, and turns to the elf. The mage seems bemused by the whole proceeding, a small smile on his face and fingers wrapped around his elbows as if he’s out for a bit of a smoke behind the tavern. Not in the middle of a demonic warzone.

“I’m Ser Carver, I suppose. Pleased to meet ya.” He offers his hand, and the elf looks down at it with raised eyebrows. Like he’d offered a tentacle or something.

Carver feels suddenly shy. What, did he not like to shake hands with humans? Did he insult him? Maker, he doesn’t know anything about elves, beyond Merrill who was a blood mage, and Fenris who- well. _Fenris._ What if he just offended his _mother_ or something-

“Charmed, _Ser_ Carver. My name is Solas.” What, did he think being a Templar was odd? ”And I’m pleased to see you still live; I cared for your mark as you slept.” He explains at Carver’s alarmed look. Solas offers his hand after a long pause, and Carver’s _sure_ he’s blushing now. He feels like someone’s making fun of him as the elf puts a cool hand in his to shake, but he’s not sure _who._ Possibly himself?

It’s a familiar feeling, so he ignores it in favor of hefting his sword, and turning to face the gathered party with a put upon sigh. Varric’s grinning, and Cassandra looks like she’s about to chuck the lot of them into the Breach, if they can’t fix it.  
Starting with Varric.

Solas is as enigmatic as a stone statue, but Carver’s relieved to have at least one more person here he’s not worried is going to murder him. Even _if_ they’re an apostate. And possibly insane, if the way he bent down to poke at a shattered demons remains was any indication. Maker’s Breath.

“Alright, “ He rolls his shoulders out, cracking his neck. “Let’s go shut this bloody hole in the sky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part! If anyone is wondering about how I characterized Varric- Imagine if your best friends younger sibling, who they're _very_ protective of, showed up unexpectedly.  
>  ~~Still stuck on who I want Carver to romance- But it'll come to me soon, I can tell.~~  
>  EDIT: Ok, I finally decided if you want to check the tags. Hotforteacher!Carver it is. (With some other flirting/ dialogue options, like any Inquisition playthrough, obviously.)


	4. Chapter 4

Varric doesn’t much like snow.

People are under some _horrible_ , misguided perception that dwarves enjoy cold weather. Fereldens, mostly, bless their simple heads. Probably because most dwarves they meet come out of the Deeproads from the Frostbacks, when they come up at all. Clanging in armor and armed to the teeth, ready to face whatever fresh hell Thedas has to offer them.  
Why some dwarf hasn’t tried to dissuade them of this notion, Varric has no idea.

Although he was born above-ground, he like to think some things must be just a part of your build- Blue eyes, brown hair, your balls shrivel up and fall off whenever it gets a certian amount of _cold._ Surface dwarf he may be, but he was built for the underground.

 

Underneath Thedas, you don’t have _weather_.

You have your cool, dank tunnels. And you have your dry, roasting hot tunnels. 

Occasionally you’ll have an underground lake, or a flooded tunnel, as a sinkhole gives way. The closest thing to a spring shower you could get, when the floods come down from the mountains and affect the areas of underground closest to the surface. Dwarves could set their calendars by the weeping-dampness in the walls after a spring thaw.

Varric had once been witness to a whole _forest_ it seemed like, getting sucked down in a rain of gravel and mud. The waves jostled him and the expeditions ferry to the point of almost capsizing, his death grip on the sides of the dark, lamp-lit boat keeping him on his feet long enough to witness the event..  
The trees had come in from aboveground like a landslide- Easily a quarter mile of travel, _completely_ vertical, making a sound like a herd of bronto being torn apart by a thunderstorm.

It wasn’t the most amazing thing Varric had ever seen, not by a long shot. Not when he’d seen trees get up and backhand Hawke into the river. Or Anders split open into a shining blue beacon, fire and lightning cracking at his fingertips like he was conducting a symphony.

Or Fenris ripping the heart out of a magister. That had been pretty cool.

 

But still. A whole forest transplanted to the middle of an underground lake, branches drooping and splintered, and a _very_ confused bird chirping somewhere in the dust- It had been for for the books.

But, weather. Not something you had to deal with.

 

So Varric was glad for the excuse of covnersation to follow Carver close, letting the big human break a path through the crusted ice for him. It reminded him of Kirkwall, almost, a quick brush of nostalgia twisting his mouth up.

If ice were slavers. And Carver was scowling more. And covered in blood.

 

“So.” Varric lets a couple seconds of silence punctuate his words. ”Junior.”

Varric is pleased that Carver takes his eyes off of the road long enough to cast the dwarf a curious look, darting his nervous glance up to the Seeker. He doesn’t blame him; He’s whispering like a kid in chantry too. She’s deep in conversation with Solas as they hike upwards however, and not a concern of Varric’s right now. (She’s too far away to get her hands around his neck, anyway.)

He clears his throat pointedly, dragging Carvers attention back to him.

“What?”

“Temple of Sacred Ashes?” He prompts, fiddling with Bianca. There’s a tense hunching of shoulders from in front of him that he pretends to not notice, buffing some wax from a lump in his pocket onto Bianca’s strings.

Varric feels for the kid, he _really_ does. Especially looking the way he does; Pale with exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes and dried blood flaking under his nose. His face is black on one side, and that’s the Seekers work f he’s any judge.  
He doesn’t hold it against her. If he could reach, maker knows how many times he’d’ve slapped the kid over the years.

Carver resets his grip on his sword, and finally sighs heavily, knuckles red from the chill and hair lank with sweat. Nobody thought to get him a pair of gloves before they left?

“What about it?”

Varric didn’t think he’d see the day, but this…. _breach_ is possibly even _bigger_ of a shit storm than Kirkwall. Admittedly, sort of a branch of the same disastrous tree. But Divine Justinia, dying in a giant fiery explosion? Most of the Chantries higher ups, as well as countless ambassadors and rebel authorities being blasted to smithereens? _Andraste herself_ , delivering a disgraced Templar from the Fade like a put-upon valet?

He’s not even sure Blondie could have kicked this off with such panache.

 

“I’m not going to grill you. Something tells me you’ve had enough of that for today.” Varric wryly indicates the impressive swelling along Hawkes jaw, which the younger Hawke shrugs off with a small flush. The cold makes it spread all the way from temple to temple. Makers breath, he forgot how easy the kid blushed. “But- what, in the name of all that is green and holy- brought you here?”

“I came with the Free Marches Templars.” Carver replies, chin jutting out mulishly, and Varric sighs. He was getting de ja vu just _looking_ at the combative expression on his face- Talking about feelings was like pulling teeth with the Hawkes.  
“What? You think because you send big scary Aveline with orders to take me from the Free Marches, where I can be _safe_ ,” He sneers faintly at the word, spitting off to the side of the road. “-is gonna keep me from doing my duty?”

Varric blinks at him in interest. This is different. “Your duty?”

“ _I’m a Templar_.” Carver shakes his head, eyes still on the road. But now his mouth is a flat, stubborn line. Varric recognizes that look; It was often pointed at Hawkes back in Kirkwall, when the mage was being particularly charming, or athletic. Or mooning after that twice damned Healer. “I realize Garret’s under the impression that I joined the Order just to shit on his magic party, but- amazingly- Not everything I do revolves around my blight-bitten _brother_.”

Varric is only slightly taken aback by the vehemence in Carver’s voice, and carefully tries to guide the conversation somewhere else. On topic.

And honestly, he feels sort of guilty. He’d thought that was the _exact_ reason why Carver had joined the Templars. Although he felt justified from investigating deeper at the time.  
Coming out of the Deeproads skinny, pale, and smelling like Darkspawn and deep mushrooms hadn’t exactly made him charitable. Especially when he found out his best friend’s- cemented at that point, after they’d taken baths in coarse sand with each other, and crammed enough mushrooms in their mouths to make a nug sick- only brother had joined the very people trying to put him in a cage?

Maybe he’d thought the worst, but Maker’s breath, what were they _supposed_ to think?

“So you get called to the conclave-“ Varric prompts, and get’s a deep breath in return. Like an exasperated druffalo.

“Yeah. I actually got his letter a day after Garrett’s- They must’ve been on the same boat or something. Me, and two other Templars-“ Carver stops, and takes a deep breath. “Agatha and…” The kid trails off again, and Varric softly touches his arm.

“Listen- It was pretty bad.”

“Yeah, I know.” He says hurriedly, putting a hand up to his face and coughing roughly. Varric quickly averts his eyes, pretending to be fiddling with something in his belt.  
He knows the kid wouldn’t like it if he saw the brief wetness in his eyes.

 

Varric shakes his head, slowing his steps as they come in sight of the outpost camp. Thank the maker; His boots were already full of snow, and his last stamina draught was a trickle of sludgy yellow past at the bottom his flask.

“And you’re so eager to jump to the Chantry’s tune…. Why? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that the littlest Hawke didn’t like being told what to do.”

Carver gives Varric a weird look. “What makes you think that?”

“Uh. Only the repeated, and very occasionally _violent_ protests against the very same? Not to mention the whole desertion thing-“

“The king was dead and the army was scattered- It doesn’t count!” Carver interrupts hotly, jerking a hand in the air as if to dispel the words. “I don’t _not like_ getting orders- I just- I…“ He stops, and Varric tries not to think too many unkind thoughts as the man searches for words.  
Like when he’s going to see the smoke come out of his ears.  
“I needed more of a purpose than what Garrett was giving me- And that’s all I’m saying on it!” He says, raising his voice as if Varric is going to continue the conversation.

Which he _had_ been, but there’s no need to be _snappish._

“Don’t get comfortable.” Cassandra says, turning her head back, causing the two of them to jerk to attention. It’s like she could _sense_ his thoughts.  
Cassandra narrows her eyes suspiciously at their tense body language, but deigns to ignore it for now. “We are only delaying for a moment. I must speak with Leliana as to how we are going to approach the Breach.”

“With a bloody dragon?” Craver puffs out quietly, as they make their way up the steep slope. The climb must’ve been hard for him. Varric’s pretty sure they haven’t let him eat anything yet, and digs out a bit of travelers bread to hand to him.

Carver gives him a grateful look and takes it, and Varric fights to keep his eyebrows out of his hairline as the warrior jams the whole thing into his mouth, groaning in relief. Well. It wasn’t _supposed_ to be one bite, but he’s not judging.

Crumbs spray, and Varric shakes his head sadly. Fereldens.

Cassandra isn’t looking fresh as a daisy either, Varric notes as he brushes his shoulder off, handing Carver another piece of bread, which he manages to nibble on at a slightly slower pace.  
He also seems to finally notice the red crusted under his nose, and rubs it away with the back of his fist, eyes fixed on the bread in his hand.

Both of them are careful not to mention the small, green glow crackling by Carver’s thigh.

 

###

Of course it’s not that easy.

Carver’s starting to get the hang of the whole rift thing, and doesn’t even need Cassandra’s shouted warning to tell him where he needed to be- He could sense the open rift hanging in front of the forward camp gates before they had even rounded the bend, a faint tingling in his hand drawing him there.

He’s already cutting the head off of a tall, gangly demon by the time the soldiers standing watch even know they’ve arrived, sweeping the sword out with one arm, and catching it in his other to double the blade back to face the next demon.

He backpedals as it spews molten venom at him, the ice hissing and steaming up into a wet fog as he circles it warily, sword raised across his chest.

It’s a rage demon, and glowing incandescently hot. A crackle of ice shoots over Carver’s shoulder, and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to tell Solas the obvious ways to combat rage demons.

Carver smashes it with his foot, sending it staggering away from him and into Cassandra’s shield, which she uses to smash it like an overripe melon. The splinters go scattering across the snow, and Varric takes care of the few tiny green wisps at the edge of the fight, the rest of the soldiers easily dispatching the few more demon that pop up.

As the rift runs out of creatures to spit at them, it fades to a lighter shade of green, crystals dull rather than livid and pulsing. He can feel it in his mark, as well as in his mind, prickling where his Templar sense allow him to feel magic.

If he had to describe it, he’d say the rift was… Tired. Depleted.

Carver looks at his hand warily, and holds it up towards the rift.  
He immediately feels the pull, and grimaces, sweat dotting his forehead as the line of magic builds slowly. Eventually it becomes visible with a _sizzle_ , as green energy arcs from the now sparking rift, and Carver’s hand, which is now wreathed green with swirling magic.

Carver lets it drain off, feeling like he’s taking the knob off of a door more than he’s locking it- And then smashing the door to splinters for good measure.

Finally he falls to one knee, and the rift snaps closed with an abrupt, localized _boom_ , causing a low murmur to go through the archers and soldiers gathered. He gets to his feet, slowly, and lets out a small sound of relief as Varric catches under his arm to help prop him up.

“Who knew you made such a great nursemaid Varric?” He jokes, and Varric simply helps him over to where Cassandra’s banging a fist against the wood planks of the watch tower. It’s surprisingly audible, considering the heavy wood and siege walls. 

“Yeah, well. Hawke would kill me if I let the littlest Hawke get sucked into a rift.” He replies easily, and Carver snorts a little indignantly.

They open the doors after some brief conversing, mainly Cassandra yelling and them shuffling around sheepishly, and Varric helps Carver as far as the main path before bracing him up to walk by himself.  
He probably figured Carver wouldn’t like to be carried through in front of so many people- which was a good guess on his part.

 

The forward camp is close to deserted as they make their weary way through, but there’s still enough people at ease in the tents and around fires to throw Carver dirty looks, fingers tapping against belts and spit landing on the ground towards his feet.

One dusty looking soldier with blood splattered across his helm manages to check Carver’s shoulder as he goes by, almost sending him sprawling. And then gives him a small, sneering look under his helm as he hurries by.

Varric rests a hand on Carver’s elbow again, keeping him from upending the bloke by his feet and thumping him repeatedly into the snow.

“Easy junior. They’re just itching for an excuse.” He reminds him gently, and Carver grunts in agreement, clenching his jaw and continuing after Cassandra.

As the war table comes into view, papers scattered across it and weighed down by rocks and things in the swirling, snow speckled breeze, Carver catches sight of Leliana’s red hair and cowl talking to High Chancellor- Roger? Roderick? Carver was never too familiar with the echelons of the Chantry. 

Point him at a demon and give him a commander who knew what he was doing and he was happier than a nug in shit. But he was terrible with names and faces, and was spared a number of Hightown duties in Kirkwall because of this.  
Thank the maker.

“Ah, you made it.” Leliana looks relieved- and slightly frazzled. Both by the weather, and the Chancellor currently crossing his arms and tapping his feet by her side. The man’s face is twisted up like someone’s hiking his smalls somewhere up around his ears. “Chancellor Roderick,” Ah, Roderick. “This is-“

“I know who he is.”

Carver frowns. He doesn’t like that tone.

“As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby _order_ you to take this criminal to Val Royeax for execution.”

Carver’s other hand drops to his sword, and he opens his mouth immediately to protest, mind whirling. No trial? Makers breath, even _aposates_ got a trial.

He needn’t have bothered.  
Cassandra, who had been looking to Leliana to report, stills like a statue, before shoving her chin and whole upper body forward eyes narrowed dangerously. “ ‘Order _me?’ “ Varric looks delighted. Leliana mildly frustrated._

 _“ **You?**_ You are a _clerk_. A glorified bureaucrat!” Cassandra spits, and to Carver’s astonishment the man isn’t immediately reduced to quavering.

Instead he draws himself up like a rooster, puffing out the sun on his red chest. “And _you_ are a thug. But a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.” Leliana interrupts, her voice deceptively calm. Cassandra’s still veritably vibrating with disgust.

“Justinia is _dead_! We must elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter!”

“What, and just ignore all of Justinia’s?” Carver butts in, scoffing. “What, her body’s not even cold yet and you’re already ignoring everything she worked for?” Carver may have been unaware of the higher ups, but you’d be an idiot not to respect a bird like Justinia. She was always decent to the small folk, he knew. Something Carver appreciated in a leader. He’d been _honored_ when they’d asked him to help with the talks.

 

He tries not to feel the burning shame of his failure. It’ll come later.

The Chancellor’s mouth sneers as he takes in Carver, who’s standing with his hands fisted at his side, face flushed. “You? _You_ brought this on us in the first place!”

“Yes, I somehow figured out a way to _blow up the Temple of Sacred Ashes_ , and you know what? I caused the first Blight as well! And in my spare time, I like to tempt mages into blood-magic-“

Grand Chancellor Roderick makes a sickened sound, turning to Cassandra. Carver spits on the ground and crosses his arms sullenly. Apparently Rodericks’s decided if he can’t chop Carver’s head off, he’s going to pretend he’s not there. “Call a retreat Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can stop this before it’s too late.” Cassandra insists, back straight and arms loose. Green flashes in the distance, but while some of the soldiers jump- Carver included, wincing like someone goosed him- Cassandra keeps her gaze unwaveringly on the chancellor.

 

She looks confident, and for a minute, Carver believes it.

###

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love getting comments! You guys are so nice. ;-; 
> 
> This is basically unbeta'd, and I give myself two read throughs of editing before posting, so if you notice any mistakes let me know! Also, I'm clandestineclairvoyant on tumblr, if anyone has questions/suggestions.


	5. Chapter 5

#####

Not too surprisingly, judging by Varric’s outright _chuckle_ , Carver decides to face the Breach head on.

“Don’t ever change Junior.” He sighs, and Carver scowls and shrugs off the offending hand he pats him with. He’s strapping an actual baldric and _sheath_ onto his back, and replacing the chipped and broken piece of shit he’d been using before with something that actually swung right. He’d taken one look at what the soldiers walking around with had on their hips, and immediately insisted on being properly equipped.

“What? It’s a good method- Why mess with something that works?”

“Works for _you_ maybe. Someday you’re going to face something that you can’t just knock down, and you’re going to think of me- And I’m going to _laugh._ ”

But Varric is still right by Carver’s side as they make their way up the mountain, so Carver doesn’t hold it against him.

Someone got him some gloves, and he’d managed to get some sword-balm to slather on his poor, bruised and scabbed fingers before he shoved them in the warm relief of the rabbit-lined gloves. That, plus a heavier jacket, and a whole _skin_ of water, and he feels much more human.

He’s still feeling punchy- Like someone who hasn’t slept in enough days. But he can sleep when the Breach is closed.

Or they’re dead.

“Rift!” Varric calls out, unnecessarily, since most of them had drawn their weapons at the first sight of the green glow. It’s easier to dispatch the demons this time- Solas casts a barrier on them that causes him to tingle faintly. Like being wrapped in a thin film, deadening the feel of the snow landing on his skin. As well as the claws that try to rend his chest open.

Cassandra and Carver both throw themselves into it with a gusto, where Varric mostly looks like he’d rather Solas never bothered at all- Actually brushing at it with a grimace.

“Solas- This shit feels like _snot._ ”

“Apologies. Perhaps you’d prefer my other barrier- I warn you however, it’s three inches of ice.” Solas says pleasantly, as he shoots grease out across the battlefield.

“… No need to be snippy.” Varric sniffs, before thumbing a small grenade off of his belt, and throwing it at the feet of the two Despair demons hovering in the grease. It goes off with a small _tchk_ , and Carver’s grateful for the barrier that saves his eyebrows as he stumbles back form the sudden inferno. “Andraste’s _tits_ Varric-“

“Watch out- I’m throwing a grenade.” Varric calls out half-heartedly, cackling and sending a bolt through another demon.

 

It’s a simple matter to dispatch the demons, and close the hole- It’s like using your hands, Carver begins to think, studying his mark as the Rift finishes snapping shut. The more you use it for certain things, the more the calluses build up and make it easier.

He very determinedly doesn’t think of it as jerking off.

“Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“I was just thinking that myself.” Carver tells Solas, putting his hand back down and grinning at the elf. “Although maybe not in that nice of a way.”

Solas simply arches an eyebrow at him.

“Let’s hope it works on the big one.” Varric slings Bianca over his shoulder, glaring at the Breach in the distance.

“Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the Rift? Well done.”

_Shite._

Carver knew _logically_ , that Cullen was Commander of the military forces. And that he’d have to face his one time superior at some point- But he’d been sort of hoping it would be later.

After he had time to feel out whether the man blamed him for Justinia’s death or not- He’d rather not have a repeat of Cassandra’s bad first impression. His jaw couldn’t handle it.

Carver looks down with sudden dread as Commander Cullen comes into view, finishing strapping his cloak on, trying not to let the too tight draw of the coat he’d borrowed over his arms annoy him.

Thankfully, Cullen’s focused on Cassandra for the moment, replacing his sword in it’s sheathe with a practiced movement that requires no glance. The soldiers are rallying behind him, and Carver recognizes a few faces that had gone with Cullen. Mostly some city guardsman- And disappointingly few actual Templars.

 

Last time Carver had seen Commander Cullen, the younger knight had been on duty, weighed down by his helm and full plate. He’d been unable even to say goodbye to his former mentor, hands firmly at his sides, and sweating in the full heat of the sun.  
Standing guard at the docks, as he watched the Commander load up his bags, dark circles bruising under his eyes and his hair falling across his face- It had been hard not to go after him, but Carver had remained. Duty kept him, mostly.

It had only been a month since the rebellion when Cullen had left- Meredith’s body was still cooling gently in the courtyard, the faint ticks almost audible if you got close enough. She’d been totally still and silent, thank the Maker. Many had been concerned that she might just _get up._

Something that probably kept the younger knights and mages awake at night, staring at the ceiling.

Carver did no such thing. If he found himself, sleepless, he’d chase sleep with a bottle of whatever was at hand until he’d managed to forget about missing Apprentices, and recruits too green to even be on the roster shaking in their armor as they were menaced by the monstrous, sparking shapes of rage demons and the dark, wispy outlines of Shades.

Although, Carver wouldn’t know if Meredith had got up and tap danced away, even when he hadn’t been deep in drink. His eyes had been avoiding that spot ever since the battle, too unnerved by the former Knight Commander to even venture into the courtyard unless it was for guard duty, or errands.

He would have followed Cullen to the ends of _Thedas_ \- But there had been so much to do. So much destruction, the kitchen smashed to pieces, one of the gantry’s reduced to rubble by pride demon. Food stopped coming in, and he'd gone _himself_ to throw his weight around and wear bodily harm to the Bran bastard in Hightown until they sent some relief.  
The littlest mages all weeping in their bunks. The one’s that had been left.

And hadn’t _that_ been hard as well, searching the ruins of the Gallows and the streets, finding the viscous, curdled remains of abominations that were just a tad too small, their braids of ranks just a little too short.

Agatha had wept, and he’d held her up in the back alley when they’d found Nevi, one of the littlest healing mages, the bodies of the people that had attacked her strewn about the dirty, soot stained flags like so much offal. Nothing remaining of her in the demon’s stinking remains but a tiny hand, peeking out from under the putrid shell.

So no, Carver hadn’t been able to follow his Commander.

Cullen’s wearing a large, red, and- most importantly- _warm_ looking cloak, his armor of office hidden underneath.

Carver knows he left the order, but the Gallows Commander armor was commissioned to fit, and it’d be a waste not to use it. He looks good in red, Carver thinks.

“Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is Ser Hawkes doing.” Cassandra informs him with a heavy sigh as the snow falls around them, moving her shoulder to let Cullen see Carver over it.

Cullen blinks in surprise. “… Hawke?”

Carver looks back, and tried not to look guilty.

Cullen shakes himself lightly, and looks from Cassandra, back to the furiously scowling Carver. “I’m- My apologies, Ser Hawke but- _What_ in Maker’s name are you doing here?”

“I’m here- I _was_ here with Knight-Lieutenant Agatha Merritt. We were lent from the Gallows to assist the Divine’s retinue with security.” Carver explains, feeling his shoulders go back and hands clasp behind him. “Ser.”

“Ah, yes.” Varric is looking between all three of them with a suspiciously broad grin on his face, and Carver tries not to let it get to him. “You know each other.” Cassandra says, face indecipherable.

“And you’re- Closing the Rifts?” Cullen seems blown away, and Carver nods, looking nervously to Cassandra, who doesn’t seem to want to have any part of the conversation.

But Cullen seems to accept this with a sigh, and then chuckles weakly. “Well. I suppose I should have known there’s a Hawke at the bottom of all this. I hope they’re right about you- We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

Carver tries not to let the small prickle of disappointment show on his face. “Ser.”

“Commander Cullen will be fine Hawke.“ He doesn’t seem to notice Carver’s agitation, turning businesslike to Cassandra to give her a quick update. The soldiers seem like they’re on the move, and he’s quick to follow. “The way to the Temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly. Give us time, Commander.”

Cullen nods, and puts a hand to the sword on his hip, clapping a hand to his chest formally. Carver starts, and returns it with a short bow, trying not to let his face get too red. 

“Maker watch over you- for all our sakes.”

###

The destruction in the Breach is horrendous.

The fallout of the explosion is everywhere, the ground a sheer twisted mass of blackened and charred masonry, melted and warped skeletons frozen in rictuses of horror. Carver’s not sure if they’re nightmares transplanted from the fade, or actually… _People._ he sets his hand to his mouth to wipe away the nauseous sweat, before continuing, giving the shapes a wide berth.

The idea that Agatha is there somewhere, long twisted hair incinerated away along with her skin and crooked smirk- frozen perhaps, with her shield on her arm, facing the threat-

Carver feels bile rise in his throat, and determinedly keeps it down, breathing the cool winter air shallowly through his nose as he passes by yet another gently smoldering monstrosity. _Don’t think about it._

He can mourn in solitude later. There’s things to do here, and _now._

He pushes it away from his thoughts, and ignores the concerned look Varric gives him, boots crunching across the wasteland as they approach the Breach.

 

“The Temple of Sacred ashes.” Solas murmurs, crouching to rub a finger through the soil curiously. It leaves his finger blackened, and the mage frowns pensively. Carver makes a face. Ugh. There was probably _people_ in that ash- if he licks it he’s leaving, Breach or no Breach.

“What’s left of it.” Varric mutters under his breath, looking as unnerved as a cat surrounded by water. He keeps running blunt, fidgety fingers on Bianca, and Carver notices he seems to be sticking close to Carver’s side.  
Whether to use him as a human shield, or under some misguided conception that he’s going to be _protecting_ him, Carver’s not sure.

Cassandra leads the way over the rocky wasteland, her hand on her sword and eyes fixed on the Breach ahead. “That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you.”

Carver doesn’t trust himself to speak, and simply swallows loudly, giving her a short, curt nod when she frowns back at him.

“They say a woman was in the Rift behind you. “ This is news to Carver. ”No one knows who she was.”

Carver frowns, but doesn’t say anything. He can't.

Some of the structure is still standing, fortunately- Or unfortunately. It shielded some of the… corpses… from being incinerated too badly, still recognizable masses of purpling and burnt flesh. The smell is like ozone, and burnt rock.

“The Breach is a long way up.” Varric observes, hand to his eyes as he shields it form the not inconsiderable glare from the magic portal- Carver nods mutely, feeling a nervous flutter in his belly. It’s bigger than he’d thought it would be. There’s a slightly smaller Rift below it. Although the biggest one they’ve seen yet, it’s hard to scale it when it’s next to a hole in the sky the size of Kirkwall.

But as the rest of the Inquisition soldiers- what’s left of them- muster up behind him, he sets his face into a determined frown, arms crossed.

“You’re here, thank the Maker.” Comes Leliana’s relieved Orlesian accent, as she rushes up to their party. There’s a bow across her back and a small splatter of green blood across her robes- Carver makes a note of it.

To his relief, Cassandra immediately takes control. She seems practiced at it, not even questioning the immediate obedience from the gathered men and women. “Leliana, have your men take up positions around the Temple.” She indicates with her hand, ad Leliana nods, leading her archers off to their perches.

Cassandra seems satisfied, turning to Carver.

He’s disquieted by the look on her face- It’s very solemn. Perhaps the least angry she’s been. He hates to think it’s because she’s at peace- This is _not_ a suicide run, Maker damn it.

“This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

“I’m assuming you have a plan to get me up there?”

“No.” Solas answers for her, looking faintly troubled. “The Rift was there first, and it is the key.”

Carver looks at Varric, who gives him a small, smug look. As if to say, _See? Green shit._

“Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

“Then let’s find a way down.” Cassandra agrees, already starting over the rubble, graceful as a mountain cat. “And be careful.”

Carver snorts, and follows her. Slightly more clumsily. Right.

_Careful._

They barely make it down to the ground before a chilling voice echoes throughout the whole Temple, bouncing off of the ruined stone and empty blasted rock like a rumble of thunder.

_**“Now is the hour of our Victory.”**_

Carver stops in his tracks, head darting around wildly. “What the fu-“

_**“Bring forth the Sacrifice.”**_

_That doesn’t sound good._

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra demands, sounding unnerved. To her credit she doesn’t stop her determined stalk- In fact, she pushes Carver forward, causing him to stumble slightly. _”Move.”_

“At a guess; The person who created the Breach.” Solas deduces, a small wrinkle marring the smooth skin between his brows.

“That is the creepiest shite I’ve ever heard in my life.” Carver says, a little breathlessly, as they make the final pebble-strewn slide into the actual crater. The smell of ozone and the prickle of magic is strongest here, coming in waves. Carver scratches his skin irritably, his hair ruffled out like a dog with a flea. Solas also looks mildly perturbed, fingers shifting restlessly on his staff as he stands up after his much more _graceful_ slide down after Carver.

Cassandra is steady as a statue, and Varric- A rock.

“Agreed. Incredibly creepy.” Varric sighs, landing like a cat next to Carver. “You Hawkes are going to be the death of me.”

They approach the rift warily, Carver with his hand ready to complete the connection when- a voice comes echoing out of the rift.

_”Someone help me!”_

Cassandra jerks like she’s been slapped, and Carver’s eyes widen as his own voice come’s echoing out of the rift, strange and distorted. It’s odd hearing your own voice played back at you- Doubly odd when you don’t remember saying what you’re hearing.

_”Put her down before I cut your rotting claws off, you blight-infested sack of-“_

“That was your voice.” Cassandra sounds gobsmacked.

“It sure as shit was.” Varric whistles lowly, sounding impressed. “Whatever happened, you were pretty mad about it kid.”

Carver frowns, bringing his hand up to clutch at the sharp ache he feels building behind his eyes. Bloody _hell_ why can’t he just _remember._ “I-“

“Most Holy called out to you.” Cassandra continues, looking at him with an almost… Contrite, look on her face. ”But-”

There’s a crackle and a wash of energy that shocks them all back a few steps as the air around the Rift rends open, spreading alarmingly far before slowing, leaving a…. _window_ hanging in the air. It shows the Temple, the exact room they’re standing in, unharmed and still standing. Carver can see the pews in the background, the arch of the doorway, a tapestry he recognizes-

The pain sharpens in his head and he thumps a hand to his head fiercely, drawing a concerned look from Solas.

 

A dark shape stands in front of Divine Justinia, her arms pinned back by tendrils of magic, her back arched and struggling uselessly against what must be a great force being exerted. Just seeing her like that sends a hot rush of _rage_ to Carver’s head that leaves him almost dizzy, teeth bared, even if it's nothing but a memory.

A strange, transparent form of himself comes into view, a huge _bang_ echoing sharp enough off of the stones around them that they all jump faintly. It was the door Carver had bashed open in the past, wood splintering around his feet as he stormed into the cathedral.

Ghost-Carver’s eyes fix on the monster, and he sees his mouth twist into a snarl, eyes flashing. _”Put her down before I cut your rotting claws off, you blight-infested sack of-“_

_“Run while you can! Warn them!”_ Justinia cries out desperately, and Carver’s heart _aches_ , as he sees the sweat running down her papery face, her face frozen in fear. But still, she tries to save him. Save _them._

_**“We have an intruder.”**_ The figure looming before the Divine seems to waver, growing larger. Carver feels a ghost-fluttering of fear in his gut as it seems to grow more solid, eyes burning like coals- Almost like it can see straight through time, to where they’re all standing and watching, with horrified expressions. He takes another involuntary step back, palms sweating under his gloves and heart hammering. _**”Kill him. Now!**_

There’s a flash of light so sudden they don’t even have time to shut their eyes, blinding Carver and causing Varric to swear a blue streak.

Cassandra comes into view through the spots in his eyes, grabbing his arm and turning him to her, eyes desperately searching his face. “You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…?” Cassandra’s throat bobs as she swallows, and Carver tries not to notice how her eyes shine angrily.  
“Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I _don’t remember._ ” Carver repeats for the thousandth time, shoving her away from him, his voice slightly louder than he intended in the quiet hush that had fallen. He swallows, throat hot and thick with anger and sadness, limbs shaking.

“She _died_ , and I don’t even remember- you think I’m fucking _lying?_ ”

Cassandra, rather than lash out and stove his face in as he rightly expected, take a step back, her face crumpling slightly. A single tear falls down her cheek, and she dashes it away angrily, turning to face Solas as the elf observes the rift sizzling innocuously above their heads. Carver doesn’t feel better.

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.” Solas murmurs quietly, almost as if to himself, his hands glowing as he waves them towards the rift. Carver tries to repress the urge to tell him _not to fuck with it._

Mages.

“This rift is not sealed- But it is closed. Albeit temporarily.” Solas concludes, turning to Cassandra as she joins him. “I believe that with the Mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed again properly and safely.”

“I don’t know about _safely._ ” Carver scowls, crossing his arms.

“Yes. Opening the Rift will likely attract attention from the other side.” Solas allows, although he seems resolute in his conclusion.

“That means demons.” Cassandra seems motivated, shouting to the soldiers along the gantry. “Stand ready!” Varric groans loudly, and Carver draws his sword, resting it in his right hand and pulling the glove off of his marked left with his teeth.

There’s a moment where Carver holds his hand up towards the rift, where the energy starts to build like a champagne without the top off, and he has a brief split second to think _Oh shit_ \- And then _largest_ surge he’s felt left strikes the ground to their left, a Pride demon coming out swinging from the Fade with a screech like... well, the best he could compare to to as he rushed it with his sword, was a hornet the size of a bear. With three mouths.

_”Now!”_ Cassandra lifts her sword, and arrows fill the demon like a pincushion, green ichor splashing out and sizzling across the rock like acid. It screeches in rage, swinging out at the closest target- Carver.

He’s not wearing his mail, and the claws catch him right under his sword arm, throwing him a good ten feet to land on his back. He’s dazed for a few seconds, before he gets his shit together and puts a hand out to grab his sword, pushing himself up with the other.

Miraculously, there’s nothing underneath him to have speared him through, and the worst he gets is a busted arse that twinges as he staggers back to his feet and into the fray, roaring in rage.

The demon seems to utilize whips as the fight goes on- Carver’s fought them before. They remind him eerily of ogres, as he rolls under it’s large, sweeping claws, trying not to get stepped on as it staggers around trying to get it’s hands on one of them. They’re all too light on their feet-

Or so he thinks, just before one of the faceless, helmeted Inquisition soldiers gets a little too close, and the demon lashes out like a snake, claws shearing underneath his breast plate and hooking him _up,_ like a fish on a hook.

Carver lets out a yell as the demon shakes the scout off like so much garbage, the body flying to _smack _against the wall with a sound disturbingly akin to wet laundry. Cassandra draws the things attention, spearing it through the foot with her sword while it’s distracted and causing it to howl in pain.__

__Carver’s grudgingly beginning to like the Seeker._ _

__Cassandra’s method of combat seems to be to scream at it like an enraged bird of prey, shield lifted and _indomitable_ as she fends off it’s whips and claws alike, dodging under her own guard to harry it’s legs and keep attention on her._ _

__Varric peppers the thing with arrows, throwing out a grease flask to muck up it’s footing- It’s too big to do much, but at least it keeps it from trying to step on his _head.__ _

__Carver gets a few sloppy licks in, dodging around Solas’s green pulses, and finally finds an opening as the demon stretches an arm out to try and pry Cassandra’s shield away, with surprisingly nimble claws. She fends it off, and Carver darts in like a lunging mabari, sweat heating his back and Solas’s green crackle flinging over his shoulder to hit it’s legs._ _

__He shouts, and brings his sword down with all of his strength, casting off a dispel as he does to strip away the magical defenses the demon had in place. He’s positive he feels something pull in his shoulder as he cuts almost clean through the arm, elbow twanging as the sword comes to a halt in the plated scales on the _other _side of the demons arm, which were much harder than he was expecting.___ _

____The sword is stuck, just barely four inches from making it all the way through the tree trunk of an appendage, and it’s jerked out of his hands as the demon thrashes away, head going up as it _roars.__ _ _ _

____The demon screeches like a tempest, deafening Carver as it throws him again, green blood splattering the ground at their feet and landing on his boots with a _sizzle_._ _ _ _

____As he desperately kicks out of his boots, swearing, Carver looks up through the stinging sweat in his eyes in time to see Cassandra move like an angel of vengeance, teeth bared as she jumps and lands on the things chest, feet hooked in the nightmarish spurs and shield in front of her face to deflect the splatter of her sword as it carves through the demons neck like a hot knife through butter._ _ _ _

____The screech dies to a gurgle, and she rides the thing down like she’s simply skating on a pond, knees bending as she rolls gracefully off._ _ _ _

_____Makers Breath.__ _ _ _

____“Now!” She yells through the twisting vapor and smoke, and he realizes with a start it’s at him. “Do it now!”_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____The rift is glowing a sullen green, and Carver runs within reach of it with his arm dangling uselessly, numb all the way to the fingertips, his left hand raised-_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____This rift isn’t like the others, it’s a _beast, _ravenous and clutching, and as it drags the energy out of Carver he starts to falter. He feels the hot prickle behind his ears and the swimming in his vision that means he’s about to embarrass himself in front of the bloody _Seeker_ and pass out-___ _ _ _

______Sure enough, as soon as the last dregs of green leave his hand like the dying sparks of a fire, and there’s a deafening _boom_ of displaced air-_ _ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______Carver faints._ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO BOY so as someone who has never written romance (or much of anything at all) this is definitely a learning experience for me.
> 
> If you notice any mistakes, or have any advice feel free to comment or message me. Or, if you just want to shoot the shit you can message me at clandestineclairvoyant on tumblr.


	6. Chapter 6

Carver wakes up, again, with no idea where he is.

 

This time, he’s not tied down at all.

He swiftly takes advantage of this fact by rolling off the bed, where two things happen at once.

One, is his legs, weak and rubbery like he’s had a qunari sitting on them for three days, give out and he crashes into the side table with a quick swear and a fumble.

The second, is the elf girl that was coming in through the door- probably to check on him- screams like she just found a dragon sitting in the cupboard, and everything in her arms goes flying. A towel drifts gently to the floor, and a jar of salve smashes on the flagstones of the fireplace, filling the warm small room with the pungent odor of elfroot.

The third, is his parched throat, pounding head, and aching bones all send a united message to his brain, saying; _You're clearly dying, sit your arse back down and wait for it all to end._

 

_“Sodding hell_ , keep it down.” Carver groans from the floor, a pitcher of water leaking next to him, as well as a small upturned vase of flowers. He throws an arm across his eyes, trying to keep the dim firelight from stabbing his retinas. His head is killing him, and the headlong tumble into the nightstand didn’t help.

“My apologies Ser, I had no idea you were awake! I beg your forgiveness and your blessing.” The elf quavers, and to Carver’s alarm her eyes are wide and wet. Before he can offer her an awkward comfort, she’s dropped to her knees and pressed her head to the floor, her nervous breathing audible even over the sound of the wind outside. He's feeling too bloody _awful_ at the moment to deal with this- Whatever _this_ whole business is.

“I’ll give you a sodding _kingdom_ , if you can find me sandwich and a cold drink.” Carver grumbles, managing finally to roll to his knees. His limbs are trembling, but he feels the blood slowly starting to flow back into them. His mouth tastes like _arse_ , and he would kill for a glass of water.

“S-Ser?”

_Makers breath..._

“Just… Help me up.”

She complies, nervously, averting her eyes from him as she gets him up on his feet.

#####

 

He finds out he’s been in and out of consciousness for three days.

He feels like it, as he wanders through the town of Haven, stuffing his face with a slice of meat between two pieces of bread. He’s feeling much better after draining a whole pitcher of water, and devouring two more of the very same sandwiches before slowing down for the third. Although there’s still the small, sweating anxiety he gets from too long without a lyrium dose, as well as the faint itching in his left hand, which he pointedly ignores. The first he's used to. The second is something he's _going_ to get used to, Maker damn it.

People give him a wide berth as he makes his way up to the chantry, where he assumes Cassandra is waiting for him. A couple of people actually bow, causing him to start back, skittish as a horse and hand swinging towards his sword.

Which isn’t there.

 

_”Why are you doing that.”_ He demands after the fourth person, who jumps back with wide, terrified eyes.

“Y-You’re the Herald of Andraste messere!” Gasps the… Archer? He’s wearing the Inquisition colors, anyway. Although if he’s that terrified when a demon’s breathing down his knob, maybe he should be looking for a new line of work. “You closed the Breach!”

“Yeah well…” Technically he did; But mostly because the Seeker was dragging him by the ear. And Varric was pushing him along by his bum.

He trails off stupidly, not feeling quite up to explaining that technicality, and the archer flees while he’s grasping for some reason for them to _knock it off._

“…It was just an accident.” He finishes lamely, nobody around to hear but a nervous looking scout, before turning to stomp off towards the Chantry.

Where hopefully someone would make sense.

###

“Chain him. I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial!”

Carver gives Roderick a deeply disgusted look as soon as he enters the room, snow dusting his shoulders and nose pink. “Are you still on about that?”

“Disregard that.” Cassandra barks at the hesitant soldiers, her eyes never leaving the spread of papers on the table. "And leave us.”

The men on duty all salute before filing out with a relieved rattling of armor, and Carver moves out of their way, coming to peer at the table himself. It’s all a bunch of maps and lines that mean mostly nothing to him. But he can make out the rifts, as well as the concentric rings of the fade tears all happening from the center of the event- The Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” The Chancellor threatens in the silence, but Carver’s gratified to see he keeps the table in between the Seeker and himself.

It doesn’t help much when she rounds it, scowling. Roderick takes a nervous step back, but crosses his arms stubbornly, apparently the support of the church as well as the unshakeable belief that you're _right_ , enough to keep the Chancellor standing where Carver's sure better men have backed down before. “The Breach may be stable, but it is still a threat. I will _not_ ignore it.”

“I almost _die_ closing that sodding thing, and you still want to arrest me?” Carver asks incredulously. “What do I have to do, bloody arm up and go into the Fade myself?”

“That will be unnecessary Ser Hawke.” Leliana says with a small smile, as Roderick glares around at them all mutinously.

“Yet you live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.”

Carver’s jaw drops indignantly. “Well, I’m _sorry_ , I guess I’ll just have to _try harder_ next time!”

“Have a care Chancellor.” Cassandra says through grit teeth, and Carver retires back, still hot with annoyance. “The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

Leliana is already nodding in agreement. “Someone was behind the explosion at the conclave- Someone the Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others- Or have allies who yet live.” The Nightingale trails off, her eyes briefly resting on the Chancellor, although her posture remains easy and loose. Arms behind her back, as if she’s merely out for a stroll in the park rather than accusing a High Grand chancellor of treason against the Maker.

The Chancellor is livid. Nothing escapes this bloke. “ _I_ am a suspect?”

“You.” Nightingale confirms without batting an eyelash. “And many others.”

“But not the prisoner?” Roderick demands accusingly, jerking his hand rudely towards Carver. Who looks to the other two women nervously- But he needn't have worried.

“I _heard_ the voices in the Temple. The Divine called to him for help.” Cassandra insists, arms folded.

“So his survival, that… _Thing_ on his hand- All a coincidence?”

“Providence.” Carver tries not to looks too surprised at the Seeker’s quiet, unwavering belief, but he knows it’s a lost cause when Leliana gives him an amused glance. “The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour.”

Carver laughs briefly, but cuts it of with a snap when Cassandra turns to glare at him. “Oh- _Really?_ “

"Yes. What else would you call this, but providence?"

He runs a hand over his mouth, head reeling. “But- You can’t think _I’m_ this- what, Herald?”

Leliana makes a small amused noise. "I see you've been into town."

“You were saved when all else was burnt to ash- If that is not the Maker’s will, than I don’t know what else it could be.” Cassandra replies firmly. “Surely you, a Templar, would find some solace in this theory?”

“But- Why would the Maker bother with me?” He asks, trying not to feel too lost. 

He thinks of Agatha, head of their class and the small flame she kept around her neck, always giving it a kiss before assignment for luck. The Divine, her unwavering and firm faith, her kindness with everyone she met, and her steely determination in the face of downright _arseholes_ and bigots.

“I just- _Can’t_ believe that I was saved for that reason.” To survive Ostagar. And then Kirkwall. Mercenary work, fighting a _dragon._ If this was the Maker’s work, than it was a cruel joke. ”By fluke maybe, or- Sodding hell.” He says, trying to fight down the cold, nauseous feeling in his gut. So many people. _Gone._

Cassandra seems unsympathetic, firm in her conviction and her new view of the world, and Carver wishes he had the faith she did. He’d never been much of a Templar in _that_ regard. He knew his canticles, and he could recite the chant. (Barely.) But it’s hard to believe in the Maker when- Well. When you're given an apostate father, and two apostate siblings, and _Blight_ , and you're told to keep them safe. And you can't even manage that.

The Order- he can believe in that. But with his beautiful, sweet baby sister a smear of gory remains on the fist of an ogre and across the canyon cliffs of Lothering- He has trouble believing in a good and merciful Maker.

 

“The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it.” Leliana reminds him gently, and Carver begins to pace, fisting a hand in his hair and groaning.

“Can’t you just- Give it to someone else?! Maybe Solas know’s a spell-”

“You are being a child.” Cassandra snaps, causing Carver to jerk up short and throw her a furious glare.

“Well, if you don’t like it, why don’t _you_ take it-“

“Even if we could- Which is ridiculous, because there’s no means, magical or otherwise to remove the mark- I would never tamper with our only salvation in such a way because _you-_ ” Cassandra comes forward to thrust a finger into his chest, causing Carver to bristle. “-Don’t _feel_ like it!”

“I don’t want to because I don’t _feel_ like it. But I’m just a Corporal- I’m not even that _good_ of a Templar- I never turned my brother in-“

“That seemed to work out well enough.” Leliana cuts in quietly, causing Cassandra and Carver to separate from where they were slowly growing closer, teeth bared angrily. Cassandra comes to heel like a hound, pacing around the other side from Carver as the two of them bristle, with the Nightingale between them. The High Chancellor seems slightly lost.

_’If he says anything, I’m going to pick him up and throw him out the sodding window.’_ Carver swears to himself, and something in his eyes must warn Roderick away, because the man miraculously bites his tongue as Leliana continues.

“And you sell yourself short Ser Carver.” The spymaster continues, running a finger along a few of the papers on the table. Carver’s almost certain she’s reciting from memory however. It's probably her bloody day-planner on the table. “A member of a noble house of the Free Marches-“

“ _Barely,_ and my brother’s the one who reinstated the crest, the mansion’s probably already been tossed over by Qunari and bloodmages-“

“A member of the Holy Order-“

“ _Templar’s_ aren’t exactly in high regard at the moment, what with all the raping and pillaging-“

“And apparently you’ve been very visible during the reconstruction efforts in Kirkwall. Not to mention you’re participation in the mage suppression efforts during the Rebellions, and the help you gave the champion in the final battle against the Knight Commander-.”

“ _Then bloody give it to Cullen,_ if that’s all it takes!” Carver almost yells, helplessly, a pit opening in his stomach. “I’m just going to fuck this up-“

Cassandra slams a book down onto the table, hard enough for a cup to rattle off of the end, and all of them present to jump in surprise. The tinkle of breaking glass echoes off of the walls in the stunned silence.

“A writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act.” She says, eyes shining dangerously. Carver remains silent, nails cutting into his palm.

“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” Cassandra stand tall, and rounds the table with purposeful steps, pressing Carver back, until he’s almost against the wall, eyes cast on the floor and shoulders hunched. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order- No matter if you think you are fit for the job or not, you _will_ be there to help us, Hawke.”

“… Fine. I’ll do my duty." He swallows loudly. "But we’re all going to regret this.” Carver finally settles on, shoulders slumped in defeat..

“We are all _already_ , regretting it. This thug will lead us all to destruction Seeker- And I will have no part of it.” Roderick bursts out, gathering himself in a rustle of scarlet robes, and storming out the door. No doubt to bring all the power of the Chantry down on their heads, Carver thinks sullenly, as Cassandra finally lets him up, her gaze angry at the Chancellor’s back.

 

“This is the Divine’s directive: Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.” Leliana informs them, a small wrinkle forming between her brows as she looks down on the emblazoned cover of the book, the eye staring up at them from it’s small sigil of flame. “We aren’t ready. We have no Leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice.” Cassandra says, a sigh underlying her voice, as she turns to Carver. “We must act now. With you at our side.”

It remains unspoken that _he_ has no choice. But Carver has always been one thing- for his family, for his country, and for Kirkwall when it needed him. He's always been _dutiful._ So Carver salutes, fist clapping to his chest and trying not to look too terrified. He’d wanted to help. Next time he prayed to the Maker for purpose, maybe he should be more careful with what he says.

“The heart is willing, Seeker.” He settles on, looking them both in the eye in the light of the flickering torches. “I only hope I can do the Inquisition justice- And that you don’t regret this decision.”

 

“It is no decision Hawke.” The Seeker says, picking up the weight of the book thoughtfully.

“You are our only hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Okay, so I realize this is going to be bigger than I thought.  
> So this is going to wrap up the intro, and all the works from here on out will be separated. I'm going to do all the companion's recruitment in one work (Barring Dorian's, who's going to show up later on, since I'm sure you know who I'm going to have Carver side with), and then major plot points will be their own also. All part of a series!  
> This chapter was hard to do, since I wasn't sure what a good cut off point was, and I'm sure it shows. Also, apologies for getting people's hopes up in the tags, as I wasn't able to work in any major relationship milestones. OTL
> 
> I love all the comments and kudos! It genuinely keeps me going, you guys are so nice and helpful.  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a few days, mainly because I keep seeing all of these GREAT Inquisitor Au's. Fenris, Aveline, Anders, etc... And I thought, how likely would it be for a character who's actually a Templar to be there? And Templar Carver Hawke is irrationally one of my favorite characters in the game- I could talk about this emotionally stunted asshole all day.
> 
> A little background- my Hero of Ferelden was an Amell mage, died killing the Archdemon, Alistair rules by himself. Hawke was a paragon mage, romanced Anders, killed Anders at the end. Sided with the mages. (All very tragic- I cried.)  
> My original Inquisitor I played was also a Templar, which probably gave me the idea- God I love Templars.


End file.
